


Balsamic Glaze

by CopperBeech



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Awake The Snake, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Baked Goods, Coming Untouched, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cruelty to Percale, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Food Porn, Gratuitous Eroticization of Cheesecake, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Smut, Smut, Who's That Sleeping In My Bed?, lockdown - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25000075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech
Summary: A rude -- or is it nude? -- awakening during lockdown, stress baking, and a couple of yearning Celestials with literally nothing but a sheet -- well, a sheet and a cheesecake -- between them and the exposure of their mutual attraction.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 183





	Balsamic Glaze

**Author's Note:**

> I'm baaaaack! Nothing special, witty or terribly original about this late-to-the-party lockdown fic. Only after recuperating far enough from a truly annoying bit of surgery to put one word in front of the other, all I had in me was a longing for some soft fluffy sexiness, and I blame the Aziraphale-shaped master-baker (don't say it) who is the love of my life, for filling the kitchen (and, unwittingly, my imagination) with things like graham cracker crumbs and cream cheese and tart raspberry glaze. This is the completely gratuitous result.

Crowley wakes up – from, we may reasonably infer, dreaming about whatever it is he likes best; it’s a familiar sensation, quickly followed by the undertow back towards sleep, which is even more familiar. Opens one chrome-yellow eye, only to detect that the alarm clock hasn’t come close to reaching July yet (he’d already decided to hit Snooze until August anyway), closes it again. Stretches luxuriously, and burrows further into the pillows, ready to return to the forgiving depths – it’s the only forgiveness his existence offers, he’ll take it – and fetches up against a sensation that isn’t familiar at all, at all.

It’s a solid bulk and warmth athwart the space he was about to shift into, instead of the kind, cool crispness he’d expected – squarely weighing down the bedclothes and emitting a wordless snuffle in response to his astonished, undignified squawk.

Aziraphale.

In bed beside him.

During _lockdown._

And, it appears, not wearing a stitch more than Crowley is himself. Unless you count shamelessly hogging two-thirds of Crowley’s pima-and-bamboo, thousand-count, silver-grey sateen topsheet. The colour rather flatters him.

“Pfnnnrrf?” he says, and Crowley wonders for a moment if this is a Pentecostal sort of speaking in tongues thing, but then the angel digs the heels of his hands into his eyesockets, blinks –

“Eeeeeep!”

If his eyes were any bigger, he’d be a manga character.

“It’s all right, angel,” Crowley ad-libs. “I still respect you.”

“I can’t think how this happened – “

“They all say that.”

“Crowley, don’t be facetious – this really is mortifying – I hadn’t the slightest intention, it seems to’ve just sort of happened rather…”

“Do tell?”

“Well, it was getting dreadfully dull. I was actually starting to miss having _customers._ So I thought all right, I’ll try sleeping too – ”

“Dressed – sorry, _not dressed_ – like that? Always took you for the striped pyjamas type. Maybe even a nightgown.”

Aziraphale pulls the sheet a little further up his chest, tragically covering that almost luminous thatch of blond hair between the pale pink thumbprints of soft-looking nipples, oops, Crowley realizes, he’s been staring. “Well, it has been frightfully hot, and what with all the baking – and you know I’ve never bothered about aircon up in the flat, I’m hardly ever there so it seems an extravagance – “

“Right.”

“And – well, I got the idea from you in the first place, so I suppose I was, ah, picturing you here, going to sleep like you said – and, well, here I was. Am. Um.”

“Just like this?”

“ _Stop_ grinning like that – it’s a predicament – imagine if I try to miracle myself back and miss? – you remember that _terribly_ awkward time with Shah Abbas’ harem? – “

“Still bet it was the fastest anyone’s ever unmade an Effort.”

“ – I could be out on the pavement with no _mask_ to set an example – ”

“Just my sheet?”

“Well, it’s the mask that’s essential. It’s Soho, not Westminster.”

“Could just miracle one up. Clothes too.”

“I do prefer proper English tailoring, but...”

“Well, angel, nothing of mine’ll fit you.“ Crowley steals a bit of his sheet back, leaning on one elbow with what’s developing into a rather winsome little simper. “Might just have to stay.” Keep it light, arch, Aziraphale’s used to that (demons, it’s how they talk), Crowley's had six thousand years to _get_ him used to it, and there'll be plenty to feed his imagination once the angel buggers back off to his bookshop like a good citizen. Which he may already be preparing to do: that little crease between the brows is back.

“There’s absolutely nothing to read.”

“There’s the entire Internet. Be my guest.”

“And all my baking’s back at the shop…”

Crowley snaps his fingers. An especially decadent, personal-sized cheesecake, drowned under a jewel-red glaze and an artful scatter of raspberries, appears between them, complete with silver forks.

“Ah – that was one of the best today – but – weren’t you sleeping?”

“Not now, seems.”

“Terribly messy to eat it on your sheets though – “

“Trust me, angel, I can miracle any _sort_ of mess right off.”

“It seems a bit _uncivilized._ I really ought to dress – “ He’s all but wriggling with self-consciousness now, a completely adorable sight, and _that’s_ going into the playback later, which is bound to be epic, a spectacular improvement on ultramarathon sleeping.

“Change with the times, angel. Last I remember before nodding off, all the mortals were trying their bravest to pretend they’re still _working_ , video meetings from home, only some of them oddly _forgot_ they were sitting there in just their underpants – “

“ _Oddly."_ Aziraphale sniffs. "I detect a demonic influence. Have you at least a dressing gown?”

“Oh, if y'must. Wardrobe’s over there. Pinky swear I won't look.” Crowley covers his eyes with one hand, performatively, then spreads his fingers and peeks.

“Now how am I to trust you, you’re a demon – “

“All right, I’ll go first, jim-jams’re on the back of the door – “ Crowley makes as if to slide out from under the sheet, and Aziraphale’s eyes slam shut just after his mouth drops open.

Crowley speculates for a moment, and forks a morsel of cake into it.

The angel admires his own baking as much as he does anyone else’s. Something like a little stifled sob fades into a hum which tapers into a sigh.

“It really is my _chef d’oeuvre_ so far _._ It’s the raspberry balsamic reduction that does it. Do try some.”

Crowley takes advantage of the angel’s still-closed eyes – the lids are pale ivory with a delicate tint of blue at the inner corners – to bunch what he can regather of the sheet in front of his midsection, before it becomes far more imperative than he’s anticipated.

Shit. It’s possible this was a terrible idea. He suddenly can’t decide whether to flirt or flinch, and there’s a little tilde of sticky raspberry vinegar on the angel’s lower lip, which is just unfair. (Has he paid attention before to the way these sheets feel against his cock? This is unreasonable. _The night before everything shut down, I could pretend we were almost there, you were tipsy after we spent the evening at the Greek place, eating baklava that left a trail on your lip just like that – you pecked my cheek goodnight –_ He’d flicked his tongue out for whiffs of the fading scent all the way home.)

He tugs at the sateen a little more, he hopes subtly, only to discover that Aziraphale’s solid hip has weighed it down, Aziraphale's staked an uncompromising claim to enough drapery to keep Giotto busy for a week. Where the Heaven is the duvet? Why did he insist on miracling the room temperature to a serpentworthy twenty-five degrees?

And why can’t he redirect his increasingly lidless, snakey gaze from the angel, who’s humming his way around another bite, sliding the antique sterling dessert fork slowly out between his lips as if he’s cataloguing the minute scratches on it?

Why is _he_ suddenly the one feeling awkward, flustered, and downright _panicked_?

Behind the wadded sheet, his dick is now hard as a clenched fist – which is coincidentally what he wishes, urgently, that he could thrust it into. Maybe lubricated with some of that unctuous cheesecake. Except that Aziraphale’s right _there,_ instead of at some safe distance where he won’t know that Crowley gets into this state over him, won’t hear his name hissing out between those too-sharp, too-beastly teeth…

Uh. Yeah.

Aziraphale’s still right _there._

“Angel…?” The word trails off, doesn’t even sound like his voice, and he realizes that the guileless blue eyes are focused solely on him, even with the fork speared yet again into that dripping orgasm of a cheesecake balanced on the sateen between them. Aziraphale doesn’t speak, which means _he_ has to, things becoming more unfair by the second. “Did you, I mean, uh, do you s'pose you might have miracled yourself here in your sleep because that’s what you _wanted_ to do…?”

Just before the silence answers for him, the angel replies very quietly: “I wondered if it was that obvious.” That little sweet-and-sour trail of glaze is still on his lip.

Moving very gradually, as if Aziraphale’s a butterfly or bird that might spook away, Crowley breaks ( _smushes_ , really, if that’s a verb, he’ll have to have the angel consult one of his lexicons) a spongey fragment of the cheesecake and crumb crust away with his fingers, holds it to the angel’s lips.

It’s endearing how the blue eyes close again, maybe he’s shy now it’s come to this, maybe he’s only willing to process one sense at a time. The warm, flocked tip of his tongue flicks over Crowley’s fingertip to take in the morsel, setting off a thump of blood slamming into already-full cavities behind the forgiving sheet (it’s the forgiveness he can get, he’ll take it), so intense that it must have made a sound like a timpani.

“It tastes much better that way,” the angel says in a wavering, almost inaudible voice, _finally_ licking ineffectually at the smudge that’s started to look as if he’d bitten his lip, then dropping his eyes to pinch up a fragment in turn. He touches it to Crowley’s lips as if he’s offering the Host.

It tastes, in fact, divine, though it’s a question whether that’s the reason he keeps licking, delicately, at the blunt fingertips, like a cat pursuing the last phantom of a coveted tidbit across a plate. He wants to touch, for a moment doesn’t dare, but, _God,_ and She can be as offended as She wants to be about it, what’s he got to lose? He catches the angel’s wrist just as the hand starts to lift away, and takes the first two fingers all the way in, tonguing between them as he draws back again, then down once more to flick the web where they join the soft hand, with what’s starting to be a serpentine fork. Someone is whimpering and he’s pretty sure it isn’t him.

The centre of the angel’s palm deserves to have a whole labyrinth licked and kissed into it, and he makes a respectable start, but stretching his lips around those thick fingers is irresistible. It’s like making a promise that hurts deliciously to seal, a deep ache and sharp pulses where the sheet’s concealing the state he’s in. The broad pads of those long-loved, gentle, competent fingers curl against the flat of his tongue, breath isn’t necessary but he hisses one in anyway, pulls back to suck and press, it’s all the taste of Aziraphale now. Balsamic angel.

“Please,” breathes Aziraphale almost inaudibly, and he doesn’t know if it’s _please stop_ or _please don’t_ stop or _please, I want –_ The plump thumb stroking clumsily against his underlip wakes up more all-but-painful sensations in that private Gehenna where hopes of things like these have been banished for centuries, only to come snaking out in the silent hours of long nights when sleep wasn’t cooperating. Aziraphale’s fingers slide out and then press back between his lips, and he’s devouring them as if the angel’s given him something else entirely to feast on, pulling almost off to suck at the fingertips and then taking them deep, there’s a little gasp and whine – definitely not him, mouth’s full –

He’s a little afraid to look up. When he does, the angel’s dropped his eyes to the plate, and he’s flushed almost as pink as the raspberry film over the remains of the cake.

“I do hope you meant it about being able to miracle anything off your sheets,” he says, shakily reclaiming his hand, and swipes his thumb through the sticky puddle of glaze and drupelets.

The stroke over Crowley’s left nipple is an excruciatingly slow drag and traction, a meditative tracing of the tight pucker that results, of the sparse corona of hair caught up in the clinging syrup. A few tracks of the thumb from side to side (Aziraphale’s expression is very thoughtful, as if gauging the viscosity for his next baking project, enough? Too much?), and then he leans in to taste his latest confection. Those perfect, cherubic lips are barely grazing the sticky hairs and it’s more intense than pounding his own angry fist has ever been, a deep, point-of-no-return pulse behind the tent of sheet as studious angel rakes his thumb across the plate again and circles the other nipple with the last of the glaze. “Angel, it’s – you’re – I’m going to – “

“Yes,” says Aziraphale, dips his head again; closes his lips around the sticky nipple, traces the hardening shape of it with that perfect tongue, and sucks. 

It’s instantaneous, almost too hard and harsh to be pleasure, centuries of _can’t touch_ and _it isn’t safe_ and _better not thank me_ snarling in final rout as his angel does what he’s always wished his angel would do – treats him like one of those delicacies he’s become so pathetically attentive about offering: _here’s a compote of fruit picked this morning, dip into this box of sweetmeats and take your choice, what if I lie down here on this tablecloth for your pleasure, does the colour suit?_

The sounds he hears coming out of himself are choked, almost sobbing, as if he’s still afraid of owning how he feels. He’s not sure how long it is before he manages actual speech.

 _“Fuck,_ angel.” Ah. Witty, that. Demonically trenchant.

“Well. Quite possibly. We do seem to have a good deal of time on our hands.”

“Didn’t think you had - ah - those kinds of ideas about filling it.”

Aziraphale’s looking almost abstractedly at the last faint smear of raspberry on his fingertip. “I confess I’ve had thoughts in the past about, well, something of the sort,” he admits. With only a hint of lingering breathlessness, as if they’re across from one another at the Ritz with the waiter refreshing the tealight, and not propped there on their respective elbows, clad in nothing but an abused sheet, raspberry glaze and come. “Only one never knows how _seriously_ to take you, Crowley, you’re so irreverent – “

 _“One_ never knows? Angel. For fuck’s sake.” Yes, definitely at the top of his repartee game here. The damp parts of the sheet are getting a bit clammy and unpleasant, and both of them are faintly adhesive in spots, like aged-out Sellotape, but Crowley fully, finally gathers his angel in his arms. “There’s only ever been _one._ ”

It’s some indeterminate time later when he thinks to ask “What in _Heaven_ made you think of doing _that?_ With – ”

“Heaven – ? Ah, quite Earthly really – something about the, ah, traction when you lick it off the spoon. To see if it’s ready, you know. I find I can never resist that, and one has, um, thoughts. Or fingers, it always seems to get on your fingers no matter what you do… The caramel sauce I made for the apple cake would probably feel similar – I can’t imagine you turning down apples – “

“And how much of this extremely sticky, _terribly messy_ baking have you _done?”_

“Well – a mince pie, I know it’s out of season, and something with dulce de leche that didn’t come out quite right, but – “

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

“If we can simply be discreet about our – ah – comings and goings.”

“Talk of that – b’lieve I _do_ have something here that’ll fit you.”

“Oh, certainly not.”

“I can surprise you. Here, give me just a moment…”

He finally remembers to kiss away that rogue drizzle smeared at the corner of the angel’s lips.

“Let’s try something on for size.”

_finis_

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech!


End file.
